Instinct
by rainbowishprincess
Summary: Nearly inaudibly, he asked, 'Know why' Her silence was her answer. 'Because I died a long time ago, Hermione. You can't kill those who aren't living.'


**A/N-** This is definitely not my best work in the Harry Potter realm. I wrote it while on the verge of falling asleep and never revised it after. It's... awkward, I know, but I like it, albeit in a strange way. I'm not disclaiming because duhhh, I don't own. Which was kind of its own disclaimer, wasn't it?

* * *

When she approached, Draco did nothing but simply turn his head and raise his wand. It was his default action, had been for the last few months. Footsteps would draw near and the actions were so clearly emblazoned in his mind that he had no need to think. Instinct did everything for him. It protected for him, it defended and it killed. He was in a permanent state of anaesthesia. He was conscious, yes, but no care for what he did. Not anymore. 

Hermione was startled. The actions were so quick and sharp her mind barely had a moment to procress them. And when she did process them, she processed his appearance as well. Hermione is not a shallow person by nature. But this... face concave, the lack of color in his skin was horrifying. But the worst were his eyes. They used to gleam. Maybe with venom and distaste but they held something in them. Now she saw nothing in his eyes. They were dead. She'd mistake him for dead as well, were he not standing and moving.

"Draco," Hermione said, voice so low she wasn't completely sure if she had said the words herself.

"Do not," he hissed and though his voice held traces of emotion, his eyes never flickered. "Do not ever address me." At this, his wand shot up further and found its way pressed against her neck and the underside of her jaw threatningly.

Hermione didn't as much flinch. She didn't need to-- how many times had this happened, even within the last week? The curses she could cast were wicked enough to make most Death Eaters who came across her deeply regret it. Her skill had risen considerably and keeping in mind how advanced she was previously, this was quite astonishing. She never even had to utter a word. Just concentrate and recite it in her mind and they were off her. She was her own protector, not some damsel-in-distress. It was why she was still alive.

But still, this pathetic morsel of what could have previously been called a man seemed to be no threat. Therefore, she stared him down. The wand poked further at her flesh and bone but she remained standing, not letting him get the best of her.

"Are you going to kill me?" she asked quietly, barely blinking the contact she had with him for even a blink. "Go on, then. _Draco_."

"It's best not to chastise me, Granger. One wrong word and you'll be crumpled and dead, just like those blood traiters that called themselves wizards.."

"Who's chastising?" she returned, fingers nimbly reaching for his wand and pressing it down and away from her neck. "Kill me. Here's your chance."

He took a step closer; his cold breath chilling her to the bone. "And why," he began, lips just hovering over hers, "do you seem so eager?"

"I could kill you in a second, Draco." It seemed absolutely pertinent that she regard him by his first name and she hadn't the faintest clue why. "Just give me the chance."

"Avada--" He couldn't finish.

"Kedavra?" she offered ethereally, voice taking on a more so compassionate tone. "Original."

"Avada--" He faltered once more.

"Just get _on_ with it. I thought you killed loads of people, every damn day."

"I do," he answered simply.

"So why not?"

"Run, Granger." His voice changed, twisting into an urge.

"I beg your..." Her brown eyes widened, not suspecting this turn of tones.

"Just go."

"I could kill you instead."

"I could kill you too."

The distance had yet to widen between them.

"So why not?" Hermione asked once more, searching his eyes once more, looking for a trace of something... anything. To show the cruel being he used to be as opposed to this walking corpse, this soulless being incapable of feeling. Nothing. That made her blood run cold and rush around her at a quickened speed.

"Just go."

"I could kill you instead."

Their conversation had just run in a complete circle.

'No, you couldn't," he assured her, voice inaudible and for the first time in that entire exchange, something briefly ran through his eyes. It was pained, she could see that much during the split-second this had occured. "Know why?"

Her silence was her answer.

"Because I died a long time ago, Hermione. _You can't kill those who aren't living_."

"You're breathing," she answered, confused.

"Breathing and living aren't necessarily akin."

And her heart broke at those words because it was true. He was alive but not living. Moving but not knowing. He truly was a pathetic morsel of what used to be called a man. There was nothing left inside of him to receiver or to carry out except for death. To cause it, to watch it.

"Why didn't you kill me?" He had more than the opportunity and she had to know. She needed to know.

His hands began to shake and his bony fingers uncurled, the wand slipping from him and falling onto the ground with a light noise. His hands were still shaking. Slowly his eyes closed and he opened his mouth which was still beyond dangerously close to his. "In ten seconds, I will open my eyes once more. I want you gone by then or I swear on Salazer, you will be dead."

_One._

This is what he'd become.

_Two._

The Death Eater with no aim in this thing loosely labeled as a life save for destroy everyone.

_Three._

Everyone minus Hermione Granger, evidently.

_Four._

And why exactly, was that?

_Five._

Damned if he knew.

_Six._

Then again, he was damned either way.

_Seven._

The Dark Mark made sure of it.

_Eight._

Laughter seemed foreign. He couldn't even muster the memory of it.

_Nine._

It was as if Dementor's had kissed him; they hadn't.

_Ten._

Was she gone?

Opening his eyes, he saw an empty space before him. She had disapparated, it was the only logical assumption. Good. He didn't want to have to kill her. Not that he would be able to kill her.

But it was nice to pretend.

He exhaled. Instinct made him bend and raise his wand, pocket it and walk away. Instinct made him kill three people on the way home. Instinct kept him breathing. Instinct did not allow him to live.

Hermione was still living. Hermione still had hope. Hermione wasn't dead yet, not like him. Not like everyone else he killed, wandering aimlessly, waiting for the inevitable.

That's why hadn't killed her. She had a chance; he had none.

That was the last bit of soul he had left in him. And he spent it on her. If he could regret, he would. But he couldn't.

So he continued.


End file.
